When I Loved You
by writable
Summary: Looking back, I have this to regret, that too often when I loved, I did not say so.


**A/N: A little one-shot set during "Down Once More/The Final Lair". It's mostly a bit of Christine character insight, with most of my inspiration drawn from the 25th anniversary concert performance, starring Ramin Karimloo and Sierra Boggess. I hope you enjoy, and I'd love to hear what you think! **

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><p><em>Looking back, I have this to regret, that too often when I loved, I did not say so<em>. – David Grayson**  
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><p>Your hands are wrapped so tightly around my wrists that I fear they'll turn blue. They're cold already, though whether from your dark embrace or my own anxiety, I cannot tell. We descend into our familiar darkness – your world that I've only come to know – and I long for light. Darkness doesn't suit me. Somehow, it doesn't suit you.<p>

My feet feel raw against the drawbridge. I'm certain that my feet are bare, that my skin has been hopelessly abused by splinters, but the sight of my black toe shoes erases my suspicions. I wonder if I've gone mad.

Perhaps that is what you meant, back when we were on stage. _The bridge is crossed. _How can you ask me to watch it go down in flames, when I long for nothing more than to leap over it once again, to leave you standing on the other side. I do not _truly _want to leave you alone, I realize that. But your eyes are wild, as desperate as your grip. You are not the ang—the _man_ I know. The voice that calls harshly to me now is not one I've heard before. You are now a man with nothing to lose. I want to prove you wrong, I want to show you that you have _everything _to lose. But I can't find a moment of silence to interject. Your booming words fill my ears as they fill yours. There is nothing to say. There is nothing that you will let me say. I feel myself longing for the stage, to be under the watchful eyes of the hundreds around me. You cannot hurt me in front of them all. I almost laugh. I know how wrong I am, how stupid. I can never be safe from you. I wonder if I've ever wanted to be.

A ball of silk and taffeta lands in my hands. I would think it beautiful if I weren't so horrified.

_Put it on_, you demand hoarsely. Your still have a feral look in your eyes, and I cower. You repeat what you've just said, as though I haven't heard. I _have_ heard. I wish to tell you this, but I no longer have control over my lips. My whole body is yours, and you certainly act like you know this. I find some semblance of composure within me, lower my head, and follow your instructions to the letter.

The dress might as well be black. It's white, of course, but there is no virginal purity or happiness within it. I feel only despair as I slip the fabric over my chemise. I am surprised to find it loose-fitting. Impossible. It constricts every inch of my skin. It would not surprise me to know that you have a noose around my neck this very minute. I smooth out the material, glancing at myself in the mirror. It is not a gesture of vanity. It is a gesture of desperation. I don't know what I feel towards the girl before me. I do know that I will never see her again.

Before I leave, I glance around the room for anything that may be of use to me. I do not know whether I wish to find a hidden door or a vial of poison, or what I would do with either if I laid my eyes upon them. Do I even wish for them? What _do_ I wish for? My fingers suddenly itch to smash the mirror in front of me, so that I will no longer be bothered by the wide-eyed child that stares back at me. How I have adopted his ways! Perhaps it is I that should be called "The Phantom".

Leaving a room has never been so difficult. How enticing it sounds to lock myself up and stay inside this place forever. Surely you would break it down, only to find me weeping on the floor, as I protest to this obscenity that you are forcing upon me. I do not wish to marry you, I do not wish it! But it is not for the reason that you believe it to be. I care little about your face any more. Your face is hardly as troubling as the bruises on my wrists.

Somehow, I find the strength to leave – to face you. The doorknob seems to turn too easily. Childishly, I want it to jam. How lovely it would be for the decision to cower to be made on my behalf. I frown deeply. I am not even strong enough to hide! I have never pretended to be strong, though I've never wanted strength more than I do in this moment. I find myself envious of your strength, awestruck by it. It pervades more than just your iron grip, or your taut jaw. It is more than your stern gaze, or the way your emerald eyes sparkle in amusement. The latter is a sight I haven't seen in some time. I suppose that is my own fault. I've given you nothing to laugh about in these last few days.

Your back is turned to me. I know your can hear me – to think otherwise is to be foolish – but still, I see you hesitate. My eyes trace the long, lean muscles of your back, hidden beneath the wrinkles of your thin, cream poet's shirt. It is not the first time that I've let myself be astounded by your beauty. You _are _beautiful, contrary to what I've tried to make myself believe, or what I've led you to believe. I've betrayed you – this I know. You will believe nothing that escapes my lips anymore.

I wonder if I am only lying to myself as my eyes roam across your broad shoulders. My head has rested upon those very shoulders, though I can't remember ever touching them with my hands. What do you feel like? If I ask you, would you cry? I don't think I've ever seen your tears – I don't think I could bear them.

You turn to me, slowly. I could just die under the heat of your stare. Your lips move – I see them with very eyes – but I struggle to understand. _Beautiful_, you call me. Beautiful. The very word sounds hideous on my tongue. You soften before me, ever so slightly. It's in the way your hands spread, as they fall gracefully to your sides. I find myself staring at your palms, the only part of you that I've touched with my hands. They were rough and cool, like the grand pillars in the foyer, like proofed leather. I think of your mask. The collar of your shirt dips dangerously low, leaving part of your solid chest exposed. I want desperately to avert my gaze, but I am intoxicated by such foreign territory. Somehow, I am cold. Beneath the folds of white taffeta, my thighs rub together, slowly.

Suddenly, I am angry. I hate how you can manipulate me with a single glance, turning me wanton with desire. I know that _desire _is what it is. It pulls at my soul, gnawing at my core. I long to be fulfilled, sated, but it is an impossibility. You haven't even touched me. You make me ache for you in a way that only you have ever done, but you haven't even touched me.

Not to say that you've never touched flesh before. I've wondered about whether you've ever been loved by a woman, but it is not the sort of touch that I now think of. My head is filled with images of death, images that I had never known myself able to procure. Violent slashings and hangings swim before my eyes. Faces turn pink, then blue, then purple, before turning so white with blackness that my temples pound with confusion. _This is your mark, isn't it? _I ask. _These are the fingerprints that you leave behind. Am I to be your next conquest? _I hiss the last word, unsure of what I mean. My cheeks feel hot.

Hands are at my neck before I can comprehend what is happening. Hands, hands, they are your hands! I am surprised, though I don't know why. Ice shoots through me as if fired from a rifle. You don't need such toys, only your hands. Fear ripples through me. Your face is a blur.

I pull back.

_Stop, please, I beg you! _You look at me in shock as I utter those words, almost as if you are you are deeply insulted. I wonder what you think, what thoughts run rampant in that mind of yours. What little color there is to begin with drains from your face. You bring a hand up towards your unmasked cheek, presumably to cover it up. I reach for it, pressing it back down by your side. I ignore the way my heart skips a beat at our contact. I already know what it means. I've known for so long. _I do not fear your face_, I promise you._ Your promises mean little to me, _you spit back. My hand reaches out against my own consciousness, desperate to touch your ruined cheek. Alarms ring in my head. What will it prove, or mean to you? Will you let yourself understand what I am trying to tell you? I feel myself coming to my senses, reigning them in one at a time. I flip my hand over. _This is what I fear. _My finger is pointing to the bruises on my right hand. I notice that my right hand is pointing to your heart.

You look profoundly hurt. But then the colors of your expression change, to blue, to red, to green. I wonder what it is that you could possibly be envious of. Your eyes are still, shining, sinister, and I catch a glimpse of what you see in their reflection. My own lids fall over my eyes. I do not want to see any more.

_We have a guest, _you hiss. You leave my side.

Raoul brings me no comfort, and yet I race to him still. I don't make an effort to understand it, how I can find his mousy locks and bright blue eyes so wonderful and welcome and resent them all the same. I don't want him to be hurt – I am certain about that – and I make no assumptions about your capabilities. You have proved me wrong again and again, and I won't have his life be the last price I pay.

He is a gentle soul, and if you love me, you would let me love him. I do not cry, but I feel the ghosts of tears fall down my cheeks. Even if you leave him be, even if by some miracle, you allow me to leave with him, I know you will not let me love him. This undeniable truth tugs at my heart so strongly that I feel it in my womb. I have borne a lie – my very love for Raoul. I realize with horror that I wear a mask. I suppose you have taught me well.

_It's useless, Raoul, can't you see? _He stares at me blankly, blinded by the love that he thinks he feels for me. Bile rises up in my throat. Am I nothing more than a siren, who preys on love and souls as gentle and sincere as his? Tears sting my eyes. This is what makes me cry – not what I am, but knowing that it is what you've made me.

You grip my shoulders. You enjoy driving him insane, don't you? I can feel your lips against my hair, curling into a furious smile. _Let me go_, I shout. Tell me, are we onstage? Why do I feel as though I'm acting? You lower your head, and your breath mists my neck. I struggle to stay focused on the man before me.

Raoul pleads to you, like a dog, his eyes wide with fear only I can see. I know his eyes are not what you are looking at. You do not care for what they hold. You only see his mousy locks, his kind face, what you desperately wish to be. I think I know you. Is this what you are thinking?

You wrap the noose around his neck with disturbing skill. The catgut reveals itself to me slowly, as if my eyes have to adjust to a burst of illumination that is simply not there. I blink furiously, and my hands fly to my own neck. You pull the cord tight, but it is I who cannot breathe.

_There is a way for you to free him, _you call out mercilessly. My eyes flicker back and forth between his and yours. He is frightened, but my heart swells with affection for the man who believes this to be his last moment of life. His eyes are honest; your eyes betray you. I can tell that you won't hurt him. Raoul can offer you nothing – certainly not what I can offer you… _give _to you…

Still, you press the catgut into his throat. Am I wrong – _will _you kill him? My own throat constricts at the sight, and again my temples pulse with ire. _No!_ I scream. I am shaken with doubt. Perhaps even in my revelations, I have underestimated you. I hate you for a brief moment, and I tell you so. You look sad – but why do your eyes sparkle?

I realize now that you are a liar. Perhaps it is something that I've known, but never has it been something that I've understood. _Farewell, my angel, _I whisper to you. I know you can hear me in the same way that I know Raoul cannot. My voice is not meant for him. When was my voice ever meant for him? _Either way you choose, you won't win_, you promise. I furrow my brow. You've misunderstood me. There is no choice to make. Not really.

_Let him go. _You throw back your head and laugh at my plea. I will admit that my voice sounds small, but it is not because I am fearful. I know what I want. For the first time, _I know what I want. _I see the crease in your forehead form. You still don't understand me. _Let him go, it is pointless to harm him. I have chosen! _I have chosen.

You stiffen.

_You are not who I thought you were, _I tell you. _I was a child, all too willing to hide in your arms, to be blanketed by your song. I was a fool as well. I _chose _to be blind, to succumb to your illusion. I don't want to be tricked anymore… _

For a moment, your lips are my lips. I can barely taste you, but I can tell that you are cold. I pull back to press my cheek against your chest, to warm you, placing my hands on the hard planes of your shoulders. So this is what you feel like. Everything about you is intoxicating… I long to taste you again…

Your hands tremble on my waist. They are not the hands that I once knew, and I could not be happier for that. They are gentle; they leave no marks on the skin they touch. My tongue darts out from between by lips to taste you for a second time – you taste like wine. Is this why I feel dizzy? I am grateful for your touch; without it, I would surely fall!

This time, it is you who pulls back. It takes me a moment to gather myself, to look into your eyes. I know what I'm going to see, because I've felt it already on your tongue. But when our gazes meet, I feel cold. You are crying.

My heart shatters.

You look pained. It is not what I expected. My fingers brush my lips idly. What have I done? And what are _you _doing? Your silhouette grows smaller and smaller as you distance yourself from me. I watch as you pick up a candle, drawing something from within your cloak. There's a burst of light, and Raoul falls, panting. Breathing.

I run to him, unsure of what else to do. I think of what to say to you as I press his head against my chest, grateful that he is safe. I run my fingers over the red imprints of the catgut on the smooth flesh of his neck. You have hurt him, and now you have hurt me too. Through the corner of my eye, I can see that you are no longer facing me.

_Go now! _Yours is a cry of anguish. _Go now and let me be! _

It is Raoul who stands first, beckoning me with a smooth, warm palm. I miss the roughness of _yours, _the coldness of _yours_. It is you that I crave. I accept his hand in a moment of panic – your screams render me incapable of coherent thought – and find myself being dragged to the boat in which you brought me here. Raoul tries to put me in, but my fists pound against his chest. How can you do this to me? Oh god, what _is _it that you're doing to me? I freeze in Raoul's arms, mumbling excuses. The tears threaten to fall once more, but I do not let them. Instead, I press my eyes shut, and beg for his forgiveness. I leave.

You sit beside your music box, and clap your hands in tandem with the figurine. My eyes burn now, from my denying them. The tears blur my vision, but I see you turning towards me. Your lips move.

_Christine, I love you. _

Your words are my undoing. I finger the ring clumsily. I will never understand you. I am yours! I've given to you my heart and soul, but you are unable to accept me, still. What must I do – must I beg for you? By _god_, I will. But you must tell me, you must look at me! You do neither. If I die now, in your arms, with your voice tickling my ears, I will die happy. And if I die in the years to come, in silence…

The tears fall freely now. We are one, and yet, we can never be one. I don't understand it, and I am too tired to try. I unfold your clenched fist, placing the ring into your safe palm. I long to kiss you there, to know the rough, cold lines in a way that only I can, but I no longer know what it will do to you. I once thought I knew what you wanted, but you've showed me that I was mistaken. _I _am the one who has misunderstood. I clasp your fingers into a loose fist, and bring the back of your hand to my lips. I linger there, uncertainly. Can I handle one last glance at your emerald eyes, and your trembling lips and quivering chin? The vision alone provokes a fresh wave of tears. I was right, I am not strong.

I turn away.


End file.
